


Woof

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet, M/M, Master/Servant, Mirror Universe, Puppy Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:10:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>B’Elanna tries to ignore Tom being stupid with Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Woof

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Tom’s always wanted a ‘puppy.’ Not the easiest thing to get, all the way out in the Delta quadrant, and B’Elanna’s not at all sure _she_ wants one. But Tom’s difficult when he doesn’t get his way. Maybe not as bad as a Klingon, more like a child, still irritating. In some ways, this is best. 

They got their yeoman years ago—filed for the first demoted ensign that available. Tom was delighted. Harry’s been a good servant, though B’Elanna’s not at all sure how that translates into a dog. 

Boys and their toys. She rolls her eyes when she hears the door open, spots them coming in, Tom holding the end of a leash and Harry attached to it, a thick collar around his neck. He’s crawling on all fours. He looks nothing like a dog, even less like a targ, but she spent two hours last night arguing the stupidity of this, and she’s not about to waste any more. She turns back to her PADD and tries to ignore her husband standing at the replicator in the corner, ordering ‘treats.’

Harry makes a pathetic attempt at a barking sound. B’Elanna lowers the PADD long enough to glare, and Harry, catching it, shuts up immediately. Tom gives her an exasperated, “B’Elanna.”

“I’m working.” She holds up her PADD, lifting an eyebrow. It’s clearly more important than whatever they’re doing. 

“You’re off duty.”

She rolls her eyes. “Look, I’m letting you play _your_ stupid game with _our_ yeoman.” And she puts emphasis on that because Tom does that all the time; some days she thinks he’s far too attached. “The least you can do is keep him quiet and not bother me.”

“Of course he’ll be quiet,” Tom snorts, like it’s obvious. “Dogs can’t talk.” Harry turns away from her, probably to hide his goofy grin. Tom’s got him in some sort of all-black suit with a gold streak across the shoulders: some strange facsimile of an Empire uniform, probably an old recipe in the replicator banks. It looks oddly modest next to Tom’s sleeveless Empire tank, the insignia sharp on his chest. He turns around with a clear bowl in his hands, little brown chunks inside that could be chocolate but could just as easily be dog food. 

B’Elanna does her best to ignore their antics, like she so often does. It’s just another Captain Proton adventure sort of thing where she has to hope to hell no one catches them and associates her with this childishness. Yeomen are for secretarial things—coffee on the bridge and chores in the quarters, busy work, and sometimes sex. _Not_ playing dress-up.

Harry, of course, will be for whatever Tom wants him to be for. He’s young, eager, and he stays on his knees while Tom holds out a ‘treat.’ Harry lifts his arms, hands wilted and curled like paws, making a show of panting heavily. Given how boring the warp calculations on B’Elanna’s PADD are, it’s difficult not to notice what’s happening out the corner of her eye, whether or not she wants to. Tom says, “Jump, boy,” and Harry makes a half-hearted leap off his knees, not making it more than a few centimeters. Tom laughs, like that’s somehow endearing. 

He drops one treat into Harry’s open mouth, and B’Elanna doesn’t miss the way Harry’s tongue lingers too long on Tom’s retreating fingers. It must be chocolate or something else made to look like less, because Harry finishes with a smile. He opens his mouth again, tongue out, and tilts back. If he had a tail, it’d probably be wagging. 

Tom, grinning, orders, “Lie down.” So Harry falls back to all fours and slinks lower to the floor, lying on his stomach. “Roll over.” Harry rolls onto his back. He puts his knees and arms half up, looking indulgently up at his master. 

Tom kneels down and puts a hand on his stomach. B’Elanna’s tempted to roll her eyes again, even though she’s pretending not to watch. Tom starts rubbing Harry’s stomach with too-convincing vigor, and Harry makes a noise somewhere between cooing and purring. Tom tells him fondly, softly, “ _Good boy._ ” Tom holds out another treat, and Harry opens up again, and Tom pops it in. 

That whole treat notion is flawed, really. Harry’s always a good boy. He’s never taken a misstep with either of them, not once. He’s always eager to please, even clever with it, often anticipating their needs before ordered. Whatever they want him to do, no matter how scared or hesitant he is, he’ll suck it up and do it. There’ve been times when he’s look to B’Elanna for help averting Tom’s nonsense. But he must like this game, because right now, Harry seems to only have eyes for Tom. 

Tom takes him through another couple tricks—Tom makes him paw at the air, then ‘speak.’ (Bark.) Tom loops a finger under the collar and has Harry roll back over, then tugs Harry back up to all fours by it. The bowl’s placed on the floor in front of Harry, and Harry looks back, curious. 

Tom’s settling behind him. “I think I’m done with that.”

For a moment, Harry’s quiet. Tom traces the seam of his pants, practically invisible in a sea of black. As Tom starts to tug it down, bit-by-bit, (Tom clearly made the outfit too tight) Harry asks, “...With me being a dog?”

“No,” Tom answers curtly, slapping Harry’s ass once for a penalty and earning a gasp. “With doing tricks. You’re still my dog, and last I checked, those don’t talk.”

Harry opens his mouth, probably to say sorry, but then turns a little pink and quickly closes it. He stares down at the bowl in front of him instead, probably wondering if he’s allowed to use his hands to eat them. If he’s supposed to be a dog, definitely not. 

Tom gets Harry’s pants below his ass, still clinging to his thighs, his golden skin looking paler next to all the black. Tom swipes one hand down the curve, at first just feeling, then checking. He smirks when his hand comes back wet around the middle finger. Harry always prepares himself—with Tom, it’s a necessity. Tom crudely wipes his hand off on his pants and starts unbuckling his own fly. 

B’Elanna figures it’s finely time to put down the PADD, and she sighs at her husband, “Really, Tom?”

“What?” He stops what he’s doing, looking over at her. Harry looks at her too, still on all fours and cheek almost against the floor, his shoulders ducking down to reach the treat bowl.

“Now you’re going to fuck our dog?”

Someone else would probably tell her it’s just a game, but Tom, ever the joker, has to go and say with a stupid grin, “Why do you think they call it ‘doggy style’?”

She glares at him. He goes back to undoing his pants. 

There’s that split second where he gets his cock out, held right above Harry’s ass, pink and thick and twitching once or twice in eagerness. In that moment, B’Elanna has to decide between taking her work to the other room or strolling over to join. She’s got better treats Harry could put his mouth too. She knows from experience that Tom’s thrusts would be more than enough to command an extra flare of stimulation. 

But then Harry makes a giddy barking sound at the head of Tom’s cock pushing inside, and B’Elanna grabs her PADD and heads for the bedroom, rolling her eyes and trying not to wonder if Harry could snarl like a targ.


End file.
